


To Stay Alive

by deadnewt



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, idk what else to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadnewt/pseuds/deadnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing worse than wanting to kill yourself, is failing to kill yourself. </p><p>Newt wakes up to find that his suicide attempt has failed. Minho discovers the truth about his friend's injuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Stay Alive

**Author's Note:**

> This does talk about suicide obviously but it's mostly tame . Here's the obligatory Trigger Warning just in case. 
> 
> Anyways, I've never written anything for this fandom so criticism is always welcome (as long as it's constructive)

The only thing worse than _wanting_ to kill yourself...is _failing_ to kill yourself. 

It's waking up from the sleep that you thought would be your last. Waking up to a searing pain in your legs and your back and your chest as you struggle to breathe— maybe the pain is from a punctured lung, or maybe it’s just because your body can't stand the idea of being forced to breathe another breath. It's the sound of your blood rushing through your head. Pounding. The constant shuddering and shaking of your body that never seems to stop. 

And this is what Newt is feeling as he slowly regains consciousness, opening his eyes, pain flooding through him. The white light falling from the windows is making his head hurt. He shuts his eyes again, willing himself back to sleep.

_No no no no no._

_This is all wrong. So incredibly wrong._

He shouldn't be here, shouldn't be awake. He shouldn’t feel the pain in his leg, sharp and burning and throbbing with every beat of his heart. Oh, how he curses his heartbeat, curses the feeling. Curses the breath that rattles out of his lungs slowly, painfully. It reminds him with stinging clarity just how alive he is. 

_No no no no no._

_Why am I here why am I here why?_

Before he knows it he's screaming, clawing his hands into white bed sheets, biting his tongue to keep inhuman sounds from escaping. But it's no use. His cries radiate through the Homestead like those of a victim of the Changing, but worse. This sound is a broken sound. Defeated. Empty. Alone. 

He screams and screams, until his head feels light. Then, he stops, his voice failing, his throat dry. He doesn't cry. He doesn't think he can. 

Within seconds of the sound breaking off the door bursts open to reveal Minho, his dark hair plastered to his face, his eyes ringed with purple, bruise-like bags. He looks like he hasn't seen sleep in a week.

His eyes meet Newt's, unreadable and vacant, as if he can't believe what he's seeing. His mouth moves, saying something that Newt cannot hear, and then Minho's at his bedside. A thin, relieved, smile spreads across his face. 

“How...” he starts then stops, looking down toward Newt's leg, then back up to meet his eyes. “How are you feeling?” 

Newt's stopped screaming now, but he doesn't trust himself to speak. Not about this. Not to Minho, who's standing by his bed, looking at him with an uncharacteristic softness that he'd never seen on the boy. Instead he only shrugs and searches for his voice. 

“Bloody perfect,” he manages to get out. 

Minho laughs a little, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's worried, Newt can tell. It's obvious that he's had no sleep, and he looks like he’s lost weight. He shakes his head, running his hand through his dark hair nervously. “You've been out for five shucking days,” he tells him. “We were beginning to think...” 

He stops, lost in thought. Newt suddenly finds it hard to meet his eyes. This boy before him is not Minho. He’s a shell of Minho, tired and nervous and half-mad. There is no fire— not right now anyways. And it scares him. It scares him to know that he has done this to his friend. He has kept him awake all night from worry and fear. He's caused him to be too nervous to eat. Too nervous to live. 

The jump didn't even work and still someone was hurt by it. 

How could he have done this to Minho of all people? It only serves to make him hate himself more. 

If Minho notices Newt’s discomfort, he doesn't show it. Instead, he continues, voice low. 

“Man, what _happened_ out there?” he asks.

Newt doesn't answer. He can't answer. Still, he refuses to meet his friend’s eyes. 

“Look, I get it if you don't want to talk about it. Alby told me you might want your space but...” he trails off and shakes his head, his hands forming fists at his sides. “If I ever find the bugging Griever that did this to you, I swear I will-”

“It wasn't a Griever,” Newt mumbles, the words escaping without warning. God, but he hopes Minho hasn't heard him. 

“What?”

Suddenly, Minho’s face is inches from Newt's, forcing him to look into his eyes. His expression is bewildered and full of a thousand questions... and then something clicks. 

“What did you say?” he repeats and Newt hears an edge to his voice that hadn't been there moments before. 

“I said—” Newt's voice is trembling. “It wasn't bloody Grievers.” His whole body seems to shiver, his wounds stinging with even the smallest movement. “It was the wall...I-”

Even if Newt would somehow have found the strength to finish his words, he never gets chance. Because within seconds Minho is moving towards him, the boy's calloused hands wrapping around his thin frame. “What did you do, you shank?” he asks, voice rough as he shakes the Newt hard, once, twice. “What did you _do_?” But it's clear Minho knows the answer. 

Newt bites back a small exclamation of pain as his sore insides are jarred. Impulsively, he squeezes his eyes shut and Minho's grasp loosens in response. 

Then, as if being pulled away by some unseen force, the larger boy is on the other side of the room, away from Newt as if he's scared of what he'll do to him if he gets any closer. His hands are in fists at his sides, and his wild eyes burn with a rage that has never been directed at Newt before. It makes Newt want to look away, to shy from the glare of his best friend, to hide from his hurt and his accusations and his wrath. But he can't. 

The question still hangs heavy in the air, a wall between them. But Newt still can't find the words. How can he do it? How can he look Minho in the eyes and say 'I jumped'? How can he live with the look on the boy's face when the words leave Newt's lips? 

_He can't he can't he can't._

Instead he covers his face with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear Minho's breathing, more ragged and heavy than his own. 

“Shuck. Shuck. Shuck,” Minho whispers to himself over and over, each word rising in volume until his voice is loud and broken. Newt slowly takes his hands away from his face to look at his friend, who's shaking by the wall. He pounds his fist into the wood, sending splinters into his skin. He hits the wall again and again, until his knuckles are red and bleeding. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Newt is thankful that the wall is the target of Minho's anger and not his face. He's roaring, a fire of fury and betrayal and desperation all wrapped up into one shuddering body. 

After a moment, Minho stops and sinks to the ground, clutching his hand. His face, twisted in fury only moments ago, crumbles. He holds his head in his hands, as if he's trying to physically hold himself together.

“You jumped,” he says, his voice hoarse from screaming. His words are hollow and emotionless. He looks broken, the fire from moments ago now gone.

Newt feels shame wash over him, stronger than before. In those last moments before he let go of the wall, this had been his biggest fear– not the pain of death or of existence beyond– but failing to die. Of living. Living with the guilt and the pain he had caused his friends. Living with the shame at his own weakness. Living with this act hanging over his head for the rest of his life, the ghost of his biggest failure haunting him. 

Tears flood from his eyes as he nods, because a part of him wishes he had never jumped and another part simply wishes he had jumped from higher. And he's tired and he’s scared and he hates the way his friend is looking at him. 

Why hadn't it worked? He shouldn't be here. It's all his fault. 

Newt cries. 

Minho shakes. 

They sit in silence for a while, Minho slouched against the wall on the other side of the room, staring blankly into space, occasionally cursing under his breath, and Newt laying in the bed, every bone in his body aching, the weight of his actions making it harder and harder to breathe. Wishing for death. Finally, Newt finds his voice. 

“I understand if you hate me,” he mumbles. 

_I hate me too._

“What the hell are you talking about?” Minho says. His voice is quiet at first, but it gains volume and strength with each word. He gets to his feet and walks closer to Newt, squinting slightly. “Did that fall give you buggin _brain damage_?” He shakes his head, as if disgusted by the thought. His fists are clenched at his sides. “I might be angry– shucking furious is more like it– but I… I could never…” He lets out a sigh. “I can't hate you. No matter how much of a slinthead you might be.” 

Something like relief floods through Newt, making it a little easier to breathe. 

“It's the Creators that I hate,” he continues, shaking his head. “They did this to us.”  
He stops by Newt’s bed and leans against the wall. He sighs. “I don't blame you, Newt.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And if you think that I'm actually mad at _you_ , then your brain is full of klunk,” he says, then pauses. “I'm just angry… that out of everyone that could have been forced to come here, they had to pick you.” He opens his eyes and looks at his feet. He's still wearing his running shoes. “I wish they'd left you out of here, where you could actually be happy.” He shakes his head again. “You don't deserve this. You just don't.” 

And that's all Minho says on the subject. He doesn't ask any more questions, or make any accusations. He doesn't make Newt feel sad or guilty or upset. Instead, he recognizes the issue in the same way he would a Griever attack or a broken bone. It's not a flaw in Newt's character. Not a weakness. It's simply another event put in motion by this horrible place and its horrible creators. 

Because to Minho, whatever might be broken inside of Newt is no different than his broken leg. It's real and painful, but it will heal. And in the end, he doesn't hold it against him. It doesn't change who he is. Or who they are. 

And when Newt finally falls asleep, he knows he'll have nightmares. But he lets himself drift off anyways, because he knows Minho is going to be close by when he wakes up.

He knows that when he's learning to walk again, Minho will be there to steady him. And no matter how much he might loudly complain about having to “carry him around like a shuck-faced baby,” he'll never really mean it.

And when the rest of the Gladers find out the truth about his injuries, he knows he won't have to face them alone. In fact, if anyone makes any comments about it, he knows he’ll likely end up holding Minho back from rearranging their face. 

At the end of the day, Newt still doesn't know why he's here. Even though his bones have healed and his scars have faded, his heart and head are still a work-in-progress. But there are days when he's glad he hadn't climbed just a little higher, or jumped a little farther. 

He's glad he'd stayed long enough to see Minho finally find hope in decoding the maps he obsesses over. He's glad to have stayed long enough to meet Chuck and Thomas. He's glad he's been around to see Alby learn how to be a great leader. And to watch Gally and Ben and Frypan and...and...and...

And when things get dark and his lungs get heavy and his leg seems to ache with a phantom pain of what he'd done, Newt tries to think about them. About his friends. 

He can't imagine trying to survive without them. 

As long as he has them—as long as he's able to love them and protect them and be there for them– he'll have a reason to stay alive. 

~~And when the day comes that he can no longer do any of these things...~~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kids! 
> 
> Special thanks to Ember Shuckfaceparadise for being a wonderful Beta!


End file.
